


Twenty years

by yu_gin



Category: The Old Guard (Comics), The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: (aka just Nicky being Nicky), Healing, M/M, Malta, Post-Betrayal, some Bible quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:34:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29543844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yu_gin/pseuds/yu_gin
Summary: One hundred years, Joe thinks. His anger is still new, still fresh, like boiling lava that just erupted from a volcano. He knows time will shape it into something new, something different, that won’t weigh in his heart anymore, that won’t destroy any memory of him and Booker, something that he can live with.But healing takes time, and they know it better than anyone else in this cruel world.~*~*~Joe cannot understand why Nicky suggested twenty years for Booker's punishment.The reason is hidden in their past.aka my take on the "Twenty years/One hundred years" discourse.
Relationships: Booker | Sebastien le Livre & Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 23
Kudos: 170





	Twenty years

**Author's Note:**

> Me, writing something that is not an AU? More likely than you think.
> 
> Huge thanks to the sweet [ MagpieMorality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MagpieMorality), who beta'ed this fanfic.

**Twenty years.**

  
  


**2019 A.D., London**

Joe is not new to the feeling of losing a brother. He has seen his brothers and sisters dying, nine hundred years before. He still remembers his youngest brother, who was still a child when he left for war. He remembers skinny arms wrapped around his neck, curly hair where he sunk his lips, leaving one last goodbye kiss, dark eyes following him while he got on the ship, still there when he parted from the land to meet his first death.

He remembers the last time he saw Quynh, his long-lost sister. He remembers their last hug, her thin smile, her kiss on his forehead, her lips murmuring: “Take care of him” and her head tilted in the direction of Nicolò. He remembers laughing and saying: “Take care of her,” aiming at Andromache. He remembers the crystalline sound of her laugher, the deepness of her gaze, the warmth of her hug. He misses Quynh every day and every night.

But this time is different. This time there are no last hugs, no kisses, no sweet words murmured in his ear, no gestures of affection. Only a scornful look, thrown from the stairs. He is ready to look away when he meets Booker’s eyes for the last time. 

_ One hundred years _ , Joe thinks. His anger is still new, still fresh, like boiling lava that just erupted from a volcano. He knows time will shape it into something new, something different, that won’t weigh in his heart anymore, that won’t destroy any memory of him and Booker, something that he can live with.

But healing takes time, and they know it better than anyone else in this cruel world.

The trip to their British safe house is silent. Andy drives quietly in the British countryside, her elbow on the window, the pleasant breeze of the evening making him shiver in the passenger seat. Joe feels Nicky’s hand on his shoulder, thumb brushing against his neck, and he tilts his head, capturing it between his shoulder blade and his cheek. Next to Nicky, Nile is sleeping, her head resting against the window and her light snoring covered by the car engine. 

Joe feels the question pressing against his lips, weighing on his tongue.

_ Why, my love? _ he wants to ask, but he knows it is no time and place for this, not with Andy and Nile so close. They might be their sisters, and he loves them dearly, despite having known Nile for less than three days, but Nicky, his Nicolò, is something different. He is part of Joe’s soul, and when he can’t understand his own feelings, Nicky is the only one who can enlighten him.

When they reach the safe house, Andy uses her newly-mortal card to claim the shower and Nile takes some rest on the couch. Nicky doesn’t waste time and brings the shopping bags to the kitchen. Joe follows him like a ghost, still incapable of speaking. He watches his movements while he methodically chops the onions and fills the pot with water, how his hand automatically knows how much salt, how much oil to put in. 

He knows that this is Nicky’s way of dealing with what happened. When their world is shaken, Nicky finds comfort in the daily routines, in the small habits, he reclaims life in the insignificant details that fill the void left.

He remembers their last night in Morocco, drinking tea and eating baklava, Andy talking about her months in Brazil, Booker about his trip to Myanmar, Joe spilling in detail about their year in Morocco while Nicky laughed quietly next to him, holding his hand under the table, a little bit drunk from the wine. And he remembers Booker making fun of him, saying that the  _ Sanguis Christi _ was going straight to his head and Nicky complaining that technically it wasn’t  _ Sanguis Christi _ since he hadn’t blessed it. Booker had laughed, saying: “Joe, your husband is boring even when he’s drunk.”

Joe smiles at that memory, but then his eyes notice the dark patch of dried blood in Nicky’s hair and he shivers, thinking of him lying in a pool of his own blood, lifeless. 

_ One hundred years won’t be enough _ , he thinks. 

“Your thoughts are noisy, my love,” says Nicky, without turning his head. “Would you like to share them with me?”

“Not yet.”  _ Tonight, when we lie on our bed, when not even our clothes divide us, when you can see me naked and vulnerable in front of you and I can be helpless in your hands. _

He doesn’t need to say those words. Nicky already knows. He always does.

That night, they make love slowly and quietly. Joe’s body is trapped between Nicky’s chest and the mattress, and at every thrust, he pushes himself against his lover, seeking more contact, wanting to feel him inside. His shy whimpers fill the room and Nicky eats them from his lips.

“Quiet, hayati, you don’t want to disturb Nile.” Andy has seen and heard enough from them to be able to sleep even during their most adventurous sessions, but Nile is still new, and she has gone through so much in the span of few days that she doesn’t deserve to be kept awake by them having sex.

When they finish, Joe rests his head on Nicky’s chest, lulled by the regular pounding of his heart. Nicky is playing with his curls, mindlessly, his lips rest on his forehead like a butterfly on a flower. They’ve left the windows open to hear the sound of the night, their warm bodies entangled to protect them from the cold.

“Why, amore mio, why twenty years?” he asks.

He can hear the effect that his question has on his soul, as Nicky’s heart races for a second and his fingers freeze on his hair. But it’s only a moment.

“You know why.”

“It’s different.”

“Is it?” asks Nicky. “Or are these nine hundred years making this difference that you see?”

“You didn’t know, you were-”

“I was blind and ignorant, but this is not an excuse. This has never been an excuse.”

Joe remains silent. Time shapes the memories, changing their colors, their taste, until they are only shaded copies of what the reality was, until only shadows are left. He still remembers the eyes of his youngest brother, but the faces of his parents and his sisters are long lost. He remembers their names, he remembers the color of the walls of his house, but he forgot the taste of sharing a meal with his family.

He still remembers when he saw Nicolò’s eyes for the first time, icy pools of water in the desert, appearing even clearer in contrast to his skin, dirtied by the mud and the blood. He remembers the sound Nicolò made when he died the first time, under the blade of his scimitar, that deaf whine that left his lips, that last sigh, the light leaving his eyes. And then the violent cough behind him, the sudden realization that the impossible was happening in front of him, his last moment of consciousness before dying on his sword.

He remembers everything of their first meeting, every single detail, every word they said in their shared language, trying so desperately to communicate something that, even back then, was bigger than them.

But the anger, the hatred, the fear, those feelings are long gone, washed away by the waves of time, smoothed by the years of Nicolò’s gentle touch, by his kind smile, by the warmth of his skin.

“I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to forgive him. I don’t know if one hundred years will be enough. What I know is that every time I think of him, I see you on the ground, soaked in your own blood, I see Andromache bleeding on her bed. I see us getting tortured for hours, days, thinking that I would never be able to touch you again, to see you smile.”

“Healing is not a straight path, ya amar. I cannot tell you if in one hundred years your feelings will change, if you will be ready to forgive him. I cannot tell you if you will ever be able to forgive him, and you know why?”

“Please, enlighten me.”

“Because time is not a gift, it is a talent,” he says, stroking his cheek. 

“Is this a quote from the Bible? Because it sounds like one.”

“More or less,” says Nicky, laughing. “Matthew 25:14 - better known as the parable of the talents. A man has to leave for a journey and puts his servants in charge of his goods. The first servant is given five talents, the second servant is given two talents, and the third servant only one. When the master returns, he asks his servant what they did with their talents. The first two servants invested them, doubling their value, while the third one kept it safely without investing it. The master rewards the first two servants, who made good use of their talents.”

“What am I supposed to learn from this edificant story?” Joe asks, mocking him.

“The moral of the story, adapted to our case, is that it doesn’t matter how much time you are given, but how you use it.”

“Sometimes I wonder if you are still a priest, deep inside,” Joe comments, rolling his eyes.

“I don’t know, my love, you have been deep inside me, you should know.”

Joe snorts, hitting him on his shoulder and his ears are blessed by Nicky’s fresh laughter. But then they become silent again, too afraid of waking up Nile.

“Do you remember how it was, back then?” asks Joe.

“Oh, I remember,” murmurs Nicky. “I could never allow myself to forget.”

Joe closes his eyes, resting once again his head on Nicky’s body, and leaving his memories flowing, like a river in spring.

**1100 A.D., Athens**

Yusuf stares at the ship and then turns to face Nicolò. There is a pleasant breeze coming from the sea and Yusuf smells in it the scent of his home. He tightens his grip on his bag, thrown on his shoulder. There’s not much inside: a few clothes, some food, an old letter. The few coins he has left are securely kept in a purse on his belt, next to his scimitar.

“So, this is where we part.”

“If that’s what you wish,” says Nicolò, staring at him. Yusuf’s heart trembles and he cannot hold his gaze for more than a few seconds.

“This is what I need. I know what you think-”

“We were meant to find each other. We are meant to be together. Like the women of our dreams.”

_ Maybe not like the women of our dreams _ , Yusuf thinks, the image of their naked bodies tangled together still vivid in his mind.

“Listen, I don’t know what made us like this, if it was a God, if it was destiny, if this is just a curse, I don’t know. What I know is that I cannot forgive you, not yet.”

“I understand,” says Nicolò. He hates this about him: he is unreadable. When they hated each other, he could read his emotions: his rage, his hatred, his fear, his sadness. But when those emotions disappeared, they were replaced by that piercing gaze that day after day dug into his heart, seeking his core. “How long?”

Yusuf looks at the sea, at its shiny vastness that separates him from his home. He turns again and says: “One hundred years.”

Nicolò seems to take it better than Yusuf thought. He nods silently and says: “Fair.”

“I understand it’s a long time-”

“You don’t owe me an explanation. If whoever gave us this gift wants us to meet, then we will meet again. If we are meant to find each other again, we will.”

“That’s what you think? That we will end up together, in some way or another?”

“I think we are here for a reason.”

Yusuf hates him. He hates him when he speaks like a zealot, as if there was a bigger meaning behind that curse, as if they deserved it in some way. Yusuf hates him when his clear eyes pierce him, like an arrow in his chest, he hates him when he makes his legs tremble with his muttered words in Greek. Nicolò has always been very direct, when fighting as well as when speaking. He has never minced words and always spoke very openly, rarely hiding his thoughts. 

“One hundred years is a lot of time.”

“It won’t be for us.”

“We still don’t know if we won’t age. Maybe we are not eternal, as you think.”

“If so, this is the last time we meet, Yusuf.”

His name has another taste on his lips, the taste of a promise. Yusuf looks at the sea, once again, thinking of his home, of all the people he has left behind, of his brothers and sisters, of his past. He wonders if he can go back to that life. If he can forget the war and his many deaths. He wonders if the Yusuf that left for Jerusalem is still somewhere, deep inside him, or if he got lost somewhere, on the dusty soil of the Levant. 

“I know you trust destiny more than you trust humans, but I’d rather decide a place to meet again, before parting.”

“It’s difficult to say how the world will be in one hundred years, and where a person like me and a person like you will be able to meet without being frowned at.” Nicolò is right, and Yusuf knows it. There is no place in the known world where he could be certain that they will be accepted, not even in ten years, let alone one hundred.

“Malta,” he says. “We can meet again in Malta.”

“Malta,” Nicolò repeats, playing that name on his tongue. “Fine. If it is God’s wish, we will meet in Malta in one hundred years.”

“Insha’Allah. If God wills.”

Yusuf steps away, greeting the captain of the ship as he approaches the dock. He turns one last time, expecting to see the back of Nicolò, him going away. But Nicolò is still staring at him, his expression still unreadable, his eyes fixed on him.

Yusuf shivers, and at that moment he knows that he will see that man again.

**1120 A.D., Malta**

Yusuf doesn’t receive news of Nicolò for twenty years. And then he hears a rumour. A man he meets in a tavern on the road for Fès tells him about a weird man he’d met in Malta, a once-warrior that had long left the battlefield behind to live in a poor village on the rocky coast of the island, in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea.

“He sold me his sword for a bunch of goats and some cheese,” says the merchant, laughing. “That fool, this sword was worth at least twice the price, if not more, but he didn’t even try to negotiate. He took the goats and the cheese and left.”

“I bet that sword is a scam. It will break at the first battle,” says a man who was clearly eavesdropping on them from another table.

“This is no scam! I have a good eye for swords, this is a fine Italian longsword, surely belonged to a nobleman. I wonder where that beggar found it.”

“Can I see it?” Yusuf asks, his voice so resolute that the other man doesn’t dare refuse the request and passes him the long sword. Yusuf runs his fingers on the blade, tests the edge with his thumb, and finds it still as sharp as the day that same sword had first killed him. “How much?” he asked, abruptly.

The merchant seems confused, so Yusuf repeats the request. “Didn’t you say that you sell spices?”

“I am a man of multiple interests. So, how much for this sword?”

Yusuf has always been a charming man, his father always told him that he had it in his blood, that he was born a merchant, like his father and the father of his father and so on, as far back as they could remember. He manages to obtain the sword for twice the value it was sold, but Yusuf knows how much more it’s worth.

That same night, he turns his horse and travels back East, his previous destination quickly forgotten. In Tunis, he has to wait a week before finding a ship that’s sailing for Malta. He counts his money again, his purse now half empty, but he doesn’t hesitate to pay the price he’s asked. He knows he has to go, he knows he has to see him.

When touching the land of Malta, Yusuf wonders how he will find Nicolò. But Malta is merely a rock in the middle of the sea, and when he asks about a tall, foreign man with fair eyes in the first tavern, they immediately direct him to the right place.

When Yusuf arrives, the house is empty, but in the yard in front of it he notices two goats that playfully knock their heads one against the other, and five hens sleeping quietly in their henhouse. He looks around, taking in the almost-barren room with a stove, a small table, two chairs, and a bed, where he sits while waiting.

The sun is at its zenith in the sky, when Yusuf hears the laughter of two children approaching, accompanied by a third, lower and manlier voice, all speaking Arabic. When he sees the three of them - a boy, a girl, and a man - entering the house, he stands up from the bed, and his hand goes instinctively to his scimitar, resting on his left hip. The young boy stares at his sword and immediately jumps behind the man, while the girl, sitting on the man’s shoulders, tightens her grip on his neck.

But the man, unarmed, smiles and tilts his head: “Don’t worry, children, Yusuf is a friend,” he says, in fluid and only slightly accented Arabic.

Yusuf could not mistake those eyes, that even after twenty years still pierce him like the first time he crossed their path, on the battlefield of Jerusalem. He moves his hand from his scimitar.

“I apologize. An old instinct.”

“I cannot blame you,” says Nicolò, with a gentle chuckle. Then he lifts the girl from his shoulders and lets her down, next to her brother. He gives them one egg each, that he takes from a basket near the stove, and sends them away with the promise of visiting them the day after. 

“You speak Arabic.” It’s the first linear thought he manages to express, once they are left alone.

“It’s been twenty years, Yusuf. I learned many things.”

His voice is different. When they parted, in Athens, his voice was rough, as if it was coming from his stomach, voicing a hunger he could not tame. Now he speaks softly, and the sounds of his language are warm and sweet on his tongue.

“But why are you here? I thought you said one hundred years,” says Nicolò, turning his back while he’s busy emptying his bag on the table. 

Only then does Yusuf extract the longsword he’s carrying on his back. Even when he wields it, Nicolò does not flinch. He drops the sword on the floor: “I came to give you this back.”

Nicolò looks at the sword, and Yusuf can almost spot the shadow of nostalgia in his subtle smile, as he recognizes the object. “I never thought I would see it again.”

“Why did you sell it? When we were traveling together, you were sleeping with that sword, and now I find out that you sold it for what? Some stinky goats?”

“That sword belongs to another man, a man I am not anymore. The goat of Aazim and Fadilah’s family died and they needed one. I do not regret my choice.”

Yusuf snorts and shakes his head, annoyed by that attitude. “I do not recognize you anymore, Nicolò. That day, in Athens, I left a warrior who was ready to fight, to throw himself in a thousand battles, and what do I find here, in Malta? A shepherd who spends his days milking goats and playing with kids. You said we were destined for something bigger, you said we had to use our gift, that God gave us this immortality to do some good. What happened? What made you change your mind?”

“You,” he answers. “You made me realize that I wasn’t worthy, not yet, at least. You made me realize that before throwing myself into a new war, I had to look inside my heart and shape it until it was the heart of a good man. This is what I did in all these years, I worked to become a good man, a man worthy of your respect.”

Yusuf feels the rage growing inside his chest as he grips his hands on Nicolò’s tunic and pulls him so close that he can only get lost in his eyes. “Why? Why do you speak like this, as if you changed? After all, you have done, why do you behave as if nothing happened?”

Nicolò doesn’t fight him back, he just stares back, crossing his gaze. “On the contrary, Yusuf, I am like this because of what happened,” he says, quietly. “Why are you angry, Yusuf?”

“Because I am not angry at you anymore. I try to hate you, I try to think of what you did, of how we met, but all the rage, all the hatred, they are gone. And if I don’t have those, how can I go on? How can I keep living, when this war has taken everything from me and left me with nothing but my bad blood and an absurd connection with a filthy invader?”

His grip on Nicolò’s tunic slowly becomes loose and Yusuf steps back, staring at his hands. 

“I don’t know, Yusuf. I’ve been looking for an answer for all these years, without finding it. And there are nights when I wake up screaming, when I dream about the battlefield, about what I’ve done. Not a day passes that is not filled with guilt and sorrow, no matter how much I try to do better, how much I try to atone for my sin. I cannot offer you the inner peace you have been seeking. But I can offer you a place to stay, while you look for it.”

“Where? Here on this godforsaken rock in the middle of the sea?”

“Far from the war, far from our past, far from the rest of the world. Stay in Malta, with me.”

“And for how long?”

Nicolò shrugs: “One month, or one year until the other inhabitants will start to notice that we do not age. We can have five, even ten peaceful years in this paradise.”

“And then what?” he asks.

“And then we’ll see. Then we can go looking for the women of our dreams or wait until they find us. We can start again.”

_ Together _ . Nicolò doesn’t say it, but Yusuf can read between the lines. 

A hundred years, Yusuf had said that day in Athens. A hundred years to forgive the man who had killed him too many times to count. But the man who stands in front of him on the rocky coast of Malta is not the same man he met during the siege of Jerusalem, and is not the same man he crossed the desert with, nor the same man he left on the harbor of Athens. The man in front of him has worked to scratch away the hatred from his heart, until what remained was the heart of a good man.

_ Maybe twenty years was enough, not to forgive him, but to give him the time to change. _

That night, he sleeps in Malta under the same roof as his old enemy. That night, he decides to stay.

**2039 A.D., Paris**

Sébastien sees them on the threshold of the door. He recognizes their faces and words die in his mouth for a second, before he manages to finish his speech. He follows them with his eyes as the women leave the room, and they move from the door to let them pass. 

Once alone, they don’t speak for a minute, before Nicolò breaks the awkward silence, saying: “I find you well, Booker.”

He doesn’t know how to interpret that sentence. Nearly two hundred years with them and Sébastien still struggles to understand Nicky, to read what’s going on in his mind. So, he shifts his gaze to Nicky’s inseparable partner, wondering when the last time was when he saw them apart. Joe is there, next to Nicky, and there is no anger on his face. Not the anger he saw the last time they met, near the Thames, twenty years ago.

“Thank you. You look well too.”

“We are not here for small talk,” says Joe. His tone is sharp, but not aggressive. He can spot Nicky brushing his hand against Joe’s, and giving him a scolding look, almost unnoticeable. 

“No, I guessed,” Sébastien agrees with a bitter chuckle. “I wasn’t waiting for you. You said a hundred years.”

“We wanted to know how you were doing.”

“As you can see, I found something to keep myself busy,” he says, gesturing at the room.

“I see,” Joe agrees. “Why this?”

“I wanted to use my knowledge for something good, but I wasn’t ready to go back into the fight, not alone, at least.”

“What, were you afraid of dying?” Joe asks, with a snort.

“No,  _ au contraire _ , I was afraid of someone finding my secret. I didn’t want to put you in danger. Again.” He bites his lips, staring at his feet. 

Nicky’s gaze wanders around the room and then lands on him. “So, you decided to teach self-defense to women.”

“Whatever works to keep them safe.”

“So, this is what you are up to, these days?” Joe asks, looking around. 

“This is my job at the moment, yes. I did many things in these twenty years. I spent some time teaching French to immigrants, I worked with kids in foster care, I’ve been a football coach for a team of fatherless boys-”

“And how about your drinking problem?”

Sébastien nods and says: “I have been sober for fifteen years.” He stares at their faces, trying to read their thoughts. He doesn’t know what to expect, he doesn’t even know the reason for their visit. He doesn’t dare hope. “Look, guys, I don’t expect your forgiveness, but I swear to you, I’ve tried to do better in these years alone. I am not the person I was twenty years ago.”

“We can see that,” says Nicky.

“So, why are you here?” he finally dares to ask.

“Because a man wiser than me once told me that time is not a gift, it is a talent. And that it doesn’t matter how much time you are given, but how you use it,” says Joe, and his eyes flick to his left, where Nicky lets himself smile. “So, we were wondering if you could invite us for tea, or dinner, or whatever you fancy. And maybe you can tell us more about your past twenty years, and we could tell you about ours.”

Sébastien holds his breath, his heart aching in his chest, as a warm sensation fills him and the happiness he didn’t dare hope for finally takes over. “I would love that.”

Sébastien moves in the direction of the door, and Joe hesitates for a second before following him, pushed by the gentle hand Nicky places on his back. Sébastien hears them sharing some sentences in that mix of ancient Arabic and Ligurian that no one apart from them can speak, their own secret language. 

“You are doing good, my love,” Nicky murmurs, in their personal dialect.

“What if it is too early? What if I’m not ready?” asks Joe, eyeing Sébastien who is walking in front of him. “What if I give him this hope only to shatter it?”

“We will work on it.”

_ Together _ . Nicolò doesn’t say it, because it is not needed. Because there is no reality where they are apart.

Joe looks inside his heart, expecting to find the old rage, that same feeling that exploded in his chest when Andy told them about Booker’s betrayal. But instead of boiling lava, he finds black stone, smoothed by time, still warm but not steaming. Not anymore. 

He realizes that the anger he felt has been asleep for a long time, and that the lost brother that walks in front of him maybe is not lost anymore.

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> This is my personal take on the whole "Twenty years/One hundred years" discourse about Booker's punishment.  
> Let me know what you think about it!
> 
> I'm [ immortal-family](https://immortal-family.tumblr.com) on tumblr (main blog is [ applepie4](https://applepie4.tumblr.com))


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